


Falling Fast and Hard

by consultingdetectivesherlockh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:10:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingdetectivesherlockh/pseuds/consultingdetectivesherlockh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John lives his life loathing the idea of falling in love. He barely notices the time that he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe, people who have found love have been named a "fallen". The "mark" is the scrape or injury left in result of the fall one had when they fall in love. The mark is connected to the soul and well being of the loved one.

John’s a boy when he’s first told about love. His little frame barely tops 100 centimetres up from the ground. It pushes on the carpet at a weight of about 20 kilograms. He looks younger than his sister tells him he is (Ten, John! You’re finally ten!) and that doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Most of the boys tease him for it, but the girls in his class smile and let him play with them while the gross kids kick each other. In return, John teaches them to be tough. They play with bugs and poke dead things with sticks. He tells them to “straighten your back and suck in your gut” just like his papa does. They give him crayons and he gives them less girly clothes to wear when they run around in the dirt together. Eventually, the boys join them in the fun and John has to start bringing first aid things and play doctor because of all the falling and scraping his friends are doing. He wonders if love is what he feels when he fixes them all up and hugs them like he does a stuffed animal.

When John wakes up on his birthday, he feels a slightly smaller body on stomach. The knees are particularly uncomfortable, so he rolls over and pushes the girl off his chest. She glares up at him for only a second. Her hands grab the covers and pull them away. Harriet is bouncing up and down with anticipation, her eyes sparkling and curls bobbing wildly around her head. She grabs John’s little fingers and drags him down the steps two at a time. She babbles about mama and papa letting her sit in and listen while they talk to him and John smiles at her. She’s happy and feels older than she ever has before. Harry even fancies herself to be a grown up now that they get to learn, but he just thinks it’s something everyone does before they go to high school.  

The duo skips cheerfully down and around the corner and bump into their parents before anyone has time to notice the other coming. Harry apologizes quickly, flashing a pointed glare at John, and he does the same. Their parents remain unfazed, their father even chuckles at their silly anticipation. He ruffles their hair and pushes them through a tall door frame. The family slinks into the sitting room and sets up perch on the large, red couch with polka dot stains and green and yellow patches.

John loves this piece of furniture. He’s slept on it more than he cares to admit (mostly because that would mean no telly for a week at the very least) and the plush, velvety texture has become a sort of safe house for him. He hides under the cushions when he’s terrified of the booming thunder and flashes that light up the entire household. He makes a fort with all of his mates and plays castles and dragons until no one volunteers to be the dragon and they find a new game. He naps there when he’s sick and he wake up in that spot with a tight blanket around his frame and hugs  the small otter that Harry got him from her last trip to the zoo. Now, the couch is going to be his castle for which love is defined and John grows from a child to a knight.

His parents are reluctant to begin. They’re wary of John and his constant stream of questions before he even has a chance to speak. He’s at that age when questions are all that pop out of his mouth, and not all have an answer. Finally, finally, John is getting one of his answers. He’ll get to understand.

“Johnny,” his dad starts, pulling the small boy up onto his lap. “Love is easy sometimes, and sometimes it’s really hard to understand.”

 

______________________________________________________________________________

****

John doesn’t think of love again until he’s halfway finished with CTC. The idea busses in his head when one of his mates tells him that he fell yesterday, to which all of the males whooped and patted his back. They’re happy for him, but somewhat unsettled that he fell so young. No one bothers saying anything because the boy, Bill Murray, is glowing with happiness. They don’t comment on the fact that he fell for a boy, and they don’t ask if the boy met the same fate. They order a large pizza and devour the meal before the instructor notices the smell of grease and cheese.

John and Mike talk quietly about the boy Bill fell for. As sensitive as the topic may be, no one interrupts them or asks them to be quiet. They go virtually undetected the entire conversation. “I heard he had a girlfriend,” Mike whispers. John nods and looks around the room.

“I heard she fell, too,” John hisses back. His teeth dig into his lip and his nerves twist for the poor sod. “For the same guy, I mean. I don’t think he fell, though.”

Mike shakes his head slowly, “Of course not. He doesn’t stick with girls for more than a week. She’ll be alright, though. She only got a paper cut when she fell. Even she thinks it was nothing.”

“What’s the bird’s name? And the bloke’s?” John asks between his teeth. The class continues to chatter around them. Mike looks suspiciously behind himself before turning back to John.

“The girl’s name is Joy. I think the bloke’s called Mark, but I can’t be sure. Seb told some other mates that it was Mitch,” he answers. His hushed tone is ignored by everyone but the little brunette on John’s left.

Suddenly, John can’t look away from her. She’s fascinating. His brain scrambles to match a name to the face and spits out Susie B. before he has the time to panic. Instead, he’s watching Susie B. twirl a bit of brown hair with her middle finger and pop gum in the most grotesque and rebellious way he’s ever seen. The gum splats on her lips and she peels off every bit with her teeth and tongue. A deep breath and a distancing glance back to Mike helps him get his breath back. He wonders how a girl can make chewing bubblegum look rebellious, dangerous even, but looks back to Susie and doesn’t think any further.

Mike kicks his leg and motions for him to walk. He wants to see if he will fall, too. Fear spikes his spine instantly. He doesn’t want to fall yet, not when he’s not had a chance to go to uni or enlist in the army or be a doctor like his mum always insists. He’s drowning in shock and discomfort. Mike pulls him out of the water and sets him on his feet.

John stands and walks with his wobbling knees to her desk. A friendly grin graces his face for a second before nerves set in again. His fists are in tight balls and he feels like he is going to scream his throat raw or throat up all over her face. Susie is smiling, waiting for his shoelaces to catch on a seat or his toes to collide with one another before he makes it to her. He hopes that maybe, just maybe he’ll fall for someone else  after he finishes schooling and serving Queen and country. Despite the heavy planning of his mates, he avoids falling like the plague. They want to do it as depicted in the movies, all at once like best mates should, but John wants to be his own man. The little gaps between the desks close in on him quickly.

John’s feet do not stop until the tap the edge of Susie B.’s seat. They both sigh and look away from the other, Susie B. with disappointed eyes and John with triumphant freedom. He marches back to Mike and sits on his desk. “I never want to fall for someone.” Mike nods knowingly and looks back to the poor bird.

Not a word is exchanged between John and Susie until graduation when John finally musters up the courage to apologise to her. His approach is much more confident than before, pride welling up his chest. He’s still shorter than the now red and blue haired girl, but she appears more timid than he does. When he reaches her side, a speech of regret pours from his lips. Susie is flustered, but she listens until John’s mouth stops moving. With a hand on his shoulder, she tells him it’s alright because she has fallen now and hopes he will one day, too. She and her love fell together just like in the films.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

After a moment of silence, John nods at his father expectantly. He urges the man to go on by pulling at his ears. They begin giggling when the man puffs out his cheeks like a squirrel and chirps, “Gimme peanuts, Johnny!” in the highest pitch he can manage. They continue laughing until his mother clears her throat and glares at her husband with enough heat to pop popcorn. John settles and looks up to his stubbly chin.

“When you fall in love with someone, you fall hard and fast. You’ll know it, John, because of the little marks it leaves on you,” Mr. Watson informs him with the most professional expression he can put up. Mrs. Watson sees through it and hugs his shoulders as a private thank you for the effort. Her husband is not a serious man, but he’s trying to maintain the illusion long enough to teach his son how to be happy.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

When John finishes school and goes to Afghanistan, he sees love more than he ever thought possible for a war zone. Each of the other captains that he has treated each have a mark, one that glows bright, white, and blossoms to a soft sink to the outer edges. He sees the shimmer of the skin, as if their souls are hidden in that one discolouration of flesh. Many of the men have more than one mark, some brighter than others. One man John recalls had 12 on his left arm alone. He wonders how many of them saw his wrists uncovered and questioned him about the pain he must have felt.

John watches men and women fall around him, some more often than others. He sees them love and let go of loved ones. He often treats two patients at once, one needing attendance to the wounds from gunshots and the other for the bleeding, blinding mark tied to that being. He administers both with a mild painkiller. Relief fills them at the same time, pain leaving gradually as the pain reflected in their partner dissipates. On the occasions that a fallen dies, John readies his straightjacket and tranquilizer. He calls for two bodyguards to hold down the thrashing person, or to carrying the poor person away from the body, or even to assist him in consoling them while John tends to their weeping mark.

John hates the marks and falling and love more than he thought he ever would when he sees Bill Murray again. The boy’s mark, the first and only one on his wrist, is gushing onto his uniform. John’s panicking. He cannot panic. He is not panicking. Yes, he is. John breathes. His hands lift the man and carry him to a private room. He disinfects the area while cooing little “it’s okay”s into Bill’s hair. Whimpering and hushed tones fill the room. No one dares to come in, not when a fallen has perished. He sews up the skin and pulls Bill into a hug. He breaks like glass in his arms.

______________________________________________________________________________

 

“And remember, Johnny,” his father giggles. “Don’t let yourself fall for just anyone. When you fall, you have to fall for a reason.” He tickles the little boy and reaches for Harry. The kids balance on his lap, holding onto each other and chuckling with their papa for no apparent reason. “And that goes for you too, little missy!”

His mother nods. She grasps his hand and sighs happily, her mark glowing completely white. “Do not forget to check for the mark, either. I know of a poor girl who fell without knowing up until the man fell for another, got married, and had children. She lost half a quart of blood because of her silly forgetfulness,” she chimes in.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

When John finally goes back to London, he finds that he doesn’t quite fit anymore. His leg is limping lamely behind him, hindering his movements, and his shoulder pulses dully from the recently healed injury. Therapy doesn’t help him. He is not a whole man anymore. A piece of his basic being broke away while he was gone, and now he’s too misshapen to match the people around him. He hobbles through the city for hours, thinking about where to go and what to do with his life now.

The walk takes him to a bench in Hyde Park. From there, he reunites with Mike. The man has fallen, and he’s become a doctor at Saint Bartholomew's. He urges John to speak. Reluctance tinges many of his words, but Mike blocks out the tone. He picks up on the message conveyed; John wants to leave because he doesn’t work anymore. He’s broken, he’s unfixable, he’s wrong. Mike tells him no, I know you where you can fit, you can stay, you will be alright. John hears this in his words, his offer to finding him a flatmate, a friend, and he jumps to the chance, feigning hesitance that he knows Mike can see through.

At the hospital, he limps into a room with a man and a microscope. He awkwardly adjusts himself, watching the man work on whatever it is he was doing with a learned patience. The curly-haired man asks for a phone, to which John offers up Harry’s. He never liked it. He needed the bare minimum, and Harry’s phone had too many extra features that cluttered up the little device. It confused and frustrated him to the point of tossing the phone through his flat and into the next room. John is still thinking when the phone is offered back to him by the great Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock charms him right from the beginning, setting him up with an interesting skill of observation and deduction. He tells John about his military service, his drunkard sister and her marital problems. He describes John’s therapist and his psychosomatic limp. When he explains his reasoning, from the scuffs on his mobile to the way he held himself, John knows he’s sold. He mentally signs the contract with himself to stay with the interesting bloke until something dreadful happens.

John is sucked in by the promise of adventure and purpose. The body they inspect, a lady covered in a sickening shade of pink, he listens and follows Sherlock’s deductions after providing a prognosis and time of death. He is stunned by the brilliant logic displayed by this curious man, unable to contain the “brilliant!” that falls from his lips. Sherlock smiles like Van Gogh would had he received compliments on his paintings. A bit of John’s heart reaches out to Sherlock before he can stop it. John doesn’t even think about falling.

He can’t seem to find himself bothered by the brief kidnapping itself by a tall, well-suited man. The man’s uncanny knowledge of his mind, revealed by his therapist’s notes, ticks him off. His questions on his new flatmate irritate him, and the bribe to spy on him flat out annoys him. He declines, sasses the man, and is taken back to 221B Baker Street.

When John returns, he follows Sherlock around the flat. Sherlock shouts at him about texting some odd number, which he does without knowing it’s the phone of a victim of the serial suicides he read about in the paper. Shock ripples through his chest when Sherlock pulls out the pink case. He soon explains where he found it, relaxing the army doctor enough. He tells him of the number he messaged jstu as a phone call comes in. They are delighted by the turn of events.Not once does John think that he wants to leave, not even when the pair migrate to a small restaurant and don’t even bother with eating.

John follows Sherlock to their new flat after a good escape from the officer that was pointed in their direction by a rude passenger of a taxicab they stopped (For the case, John!). He’s giggling, clutching his stomach, and muttering thoughtless comments to Sherlock when he returns the warm smile. He doesn’t notice that he’s without his cane, and he wouldn’t have if Sherlock had not informed Angelo that it was still at the table when they dashed off.

John smiles apologetically at Angelo, taking the cane in hand and turning away to meet Sherlock in the new flat. He misses the wink that Angelo flicks in his direction, the piece of wood pointing up from the staircase, and fails to notice until his knees crumple beneath him. He automatically braces himself for the fall, accustom to his accident-prone tendencies. The wooden railing stabilizes him before his face can meet the ground. It bends down with him with a hushed squeak that is missed because of the adrenaline pounding in his ears. Adrenaline surges in his veins. John doesn’t notice the newly-formed scrape on his left hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stumbles upon the secret by accident, though he insists that he found out about it all on his own, and on purpose. He finds it in the form of ink; reading. At his age, he should be out in the mud and grass with a sweaty navel and stained trousers. Instead, he remains indoors with his books. The library has many books for him; he reads classic novels, textbooks, and medical journals. On good days, he convinces his brother to get him old case files, and he reads those as a treat to himself.

The textbooks are helpful, if a bit complex. Algorithms are still a little too hard for him to understand, and some charts are utter nonsense, but he can make out the message in most cases. It takes a few months to get through the maths books, then many more to fully read through the literature text. Sherlock's next study, biology, is the most interesting yet. He doesn’t stop reading about it, not until he breaches a topic he’s never tapped before. Curiosity makes the five year old boy call his brother to fill in the gap.

“Mycroft, what is falling?” Sherlock’s little voice squeaks. He holds the book out and points to the section in question, 'The Mark and Mechanics of Falling'. “This bit of text references it, but I don’t understand. I haven't seen it anywhere!”

Mycroft sighs. He places his strawberry pastry on the table in front of him, loathing the fact that he has to be the one to explain it. Mummy should have at least mentioned it, he thinks to himself. Father, the git that he is, would never do it. This is not the first time the teenage boy needed to take charge of something for him. “It’s a representation of sentiment. In most cases, it’s painful and not worth the trouble it truly is.”

“How is it a trouble? What happens when you fall, dear brother?” Sherlock spits. He tilts his head and folds his arm in frustration. Mycroft shakes his head and looks away, thinking of Mummy and Father, of the Holmes family and the troubles they had. The acid and curses spewed across dinner tables. The broken china. He swings his cane around.

______________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock loathes his classmates. They're mindless fools who topple over their own feet every time they look around the room and spot a semi-attractive member of the perspective sex. It's not that he can't fall, which is clear by the state of his tattered jeans, it's that he doesn't fall for others. All of the teens he knows are dull. Not a single one shows any sign of intelligence. He spits fire at them all if they dare cross his path.

After a year of constant isolation, there's a male student who isn't afraid to walk by him. He picks the seat behind Sherlock in class and takes a path that requires him to cross Sherlock twice; he runs past him in the halls and shoves by, knocking Sherlock's books out of his hands on more than one occasion; he tiptoes around the tree Sherlock perches in at lunch. Weeks go by, his feet remain steady as he moves around Sherlock's desk, Sherlock's books, Sherlock's tree, and Sherlock wonders what on Earth makes him so brave.

To make matters worse, the redhead says nothing to Sherlock. Of all the times they've crossed paths, not a single word is uttered. Sherlock is completely fascinated by his behaviour. He tries to spark some sort of communication on the 135th day of passing by with a flashy smirk and held out hand. He doesn't bother with words; the redhead has been silent. A freckled hand clasps his tightly and they shake. He doesn't know what to think.

A month later, they've not exchanged any words. They've communicated, many smiles passed between them as well as notes. The boy has even begun to crawl up the tree to eat with him. They've carried one another's books. However, none of these instances provided any byte of sound from the boys. Sherlock begins to wonder if the red-haired boy is mute, or if he believes Sherlock himself is mute. Sherlock wants to test his hypotheses, but his courage has yet to be formed. Why risk the only friend he has?

In the end, he doesn't need courage to discover that he was wrong. The first and second theories are dismissed when their professor calls on the redhead with a sharp, "Ben!"

"Oi!" the redhead responds. He drops the note that was going over his shoulder and onto Sherlock's desk. It falls onto the floor without a sound.

Sherlock is enraged. The boy's, Ben's, voice rings in his head. How dare he? How dare he remain quiet? Sherlock leans over and snatches the sheet off the ground. He doesn't look up at him as he reads it.

( _do you wanna come over today_ )

Oh. _Oh._  Sherlock is blushing deeper than an over ripe cherry. The fear and rage are clouded by sudden and sharp relief. Sherlock cannot find anything else to focus on except for the fact that Ben really is his friend; he wasn't making fun of him. Sherlock's grinning at Ben, and Ben's crooked teeth are smiling right back. They do not speak, nor do they acknowledge the angered professor. Eventually, he grows tired of his lecture and starts teaching again, leaving Sherlock to write his response on the note.

( _Okay_ )

______________________________________________________________________________

“It’s stupid.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Uni is different. He meets Victor, Sebastian, and finds a passion he never truly indulged in his childhood. Namely, cases, sex, and drugs, not necessarily in that order. He experiments with men and women, nicotine and heroin, but he always returns to his favourite fix. Victor and cocaine. Victor, who is sweet, but clinging, compliments the sharp high. He lets Sherlock think and get high, then cleans up the mess he leaves in his wake. Victor even allows him to get lost in his thoughts. Sherlock is content with the arrangement to the point of losing track of time. The days melt together.

After one night of spectacular sex, Sherlock rides down his high. It's at its end, crashing like the waves on the coast. Victor presses a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck and lets out a small puff of air. Sherlock squirms under him and pushes him off. “Cut it out,” he half-laughs, half-snarls. He pushes the covers off of himself and pushes himself out of bed. He nearly trips on Victor’s phone charger, but notices before his feet get tangled. A sigh falls from his lips.

“Again, Victor?” Sherlock grumbles. He grabs the phone and checks the time, then shoots a text to their dealer. He reaches for the last of their stash and a broken rubber band. Wrapping it around his arm, he readies the needle and pushes it in his vein, not hesitating to press the plunger down and fill himself up. A soft groan comes from the figure at his side.

“Again, Sherlock?” Victor mocks. He throws the pillow at Sherlock and rubs his eyes. “I just want you to find something else to get addicted to, something that isn’t dangerous. If you just fell-”

“Enough,” Sherlock barks. He tosses the pillow back, nailing him between the eyes, and unties the band. It falls to the table next to the now empty syringe. “I do not need to fall if you have done so. It’s quite common between couples our age. Leave it.”

Victor falls back into bed with a humph. He wishes that, just once, Sherlock would miss his traps and trip for him. The thought is selfish in origin, but evolves into a brilliant, selfless wish for a poor, lonely boy without love.

______________________________________________________________________________

"It never lasts."

______________________________________________________________________________

Ben and Sherlock return to their silent ways. When computers become popular, they send messages over email along side of their note writing. Sherlock archives a copy of every single piece of conversation. He clings to his friend like a boy to his teddy bear, but in such a manner that Ben doesn't know. He hides the notes, the printouts of the emails, and the various holiday cards in a box under his bed.

Ben writes him nearly every day, sometimes about homework ( _how do you find the arccos of x, sherlock?_ ), sometimes about gossip ( _june and august just got back together. isn't that hilarious!_ ), sometimes about getting together ( _my house. 5 o'clock. be there and i'll let you take one of my turtle's eggs_ ). Once, he messages him about school gatherings.

( _are you going to the dance?_ )

( _Maybe_ )

( _with me?_ )

( _Okay_ )

And they go. Sherlock's happy, smiling and done up with a corsage and little white suit and navy shirt. Ben smiles at him like it’s normal, like he’s gorgeous and wonderful, and he almost almost falls over his own feet. Ben is shorter, very much so, with a black suit, blue shirt, and silver tie. They match, Sherlock realises. It only increases the heat pooling in his cheeks.

Ben’s freckled cheeks are rosy and pinched up because of the smile. He steps toward Sherlock to catch his hand and

he

falls.

The air in Sherlock’s lungs dissipates. _Oh._ Ben stands up, but Sherlock sees it; he sees the little bit of blood on Ben’s hands and he can’t breathe. Sherlock pulls him up and smiles. He opens his mouth and speaks to him for the first time.

“It’s okay.” And it is. Sherlock leads him inside. They dance with Ben’s friends, with strangers, with each other, until they’ve lost both of their jackets and Ben’s tie in the mob. Sherlock trips over Ben’s feet and they both fall on their butts. Sherlock’s hand aches, and it’s probably bruised, but he couldn’t care less.

When the night finally ends, they’ve said more than a thousand words, and hundred more on the car ride home. Ben walks Sherlock to the door and presses a tentative kiss to the corner of his mouth. They hug, and Ben is gone.

It becomes a routine. They talk, they write, they give sweet kisses, then they go home. They keep going that way until the redhead moves away. His family sets up home in Scotland, but Sherlock does not care. He doesn't want to. If he does, it’ll hurt and he doesn’t want that. He never fell, not after that night, but it doesn’t matter.

Sherlock reminds himself of what his brother said. All friendships, relationships for that matter, end. Suddenly, it's not alarming that he's alone again. There's barely a mark left from Ben, but a mark nonetheless. His palm has a small, pinkish mark just next to the beginning of his thumb. It doesn’t matter. Sherlock is alone. Not a single person thinks to walk around him again. That knowledge alone makes him smile. If they don't cross paths with him, how on Earth are they to befriend him like Ben?

______________________________________________________________________________

The sound of a gunshot ripples through the air. Sherlock’s breath halts in place. He's scared, more than he was when he overdosed, more than when his father died. The pill falls from his hand. He ignores the pounding in his ears and turns to interrogate the the man on the ground. He needs to get his information, and he needs it now, before the idiot decides that dying would be easier than speaking up. “Who hired you?” He hisses, glaring and snarling like an animal. He stomps down on the bullet wound. Hope shrieks in pain.

"Moriarty!"

When Lestrade and the rest of the Yard arrive at the scene, they barely notice the small, ex-army doctor. They miss the silent exchange between Sherlock and the man. It doesn’t take long for Lestrade to notice him, though. Even Mycroft sees the pair’s already properly formed connection at work. “Sherlock, we -” Lestrade starts. Sherlock snaps his attention to him.

“Oh what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket,” he says, seeking a way to escape and communicate with the interesting man across the street. He needs to speak with John. Wonderful, brilliant John. The soldier, the doctor, the fool who just ended another man's life for the sake of his own. Sherlock doesn't know what to think. When he gets to his friend, they stare at each other in silence. Neither of them know how to begin to address what's transpired. Moments pass, and still not a word is uttered.

“Sergeant Donovan was just explaining everything. Two pills. It's a dreadful business, isn't it? Just dreadful,” John finally says, behaving as if he was innocent. Sherlock bites back the desire to laugh and give him away.

“Good shot,” Sherlock mumbles quietly. A smile graces his lips. He feels the need to at least hint to knowing of John’s involvement, to show not only his intelligence, but that John can trust him with this knowledge as well.

However, his attempts go unnoticed. John nods, but continues to act as if he knows nothing. He too is biting back a smile, though his is from knowing, from feeling as though he did something to protect a friend despite the fact that he’s truly a total stranger. “Yes, yes must've been from that window.”

Sherlock grows impatient with his attempts and sets out straight for the heart of it. His face evens out a little bit.His expression falters onto a touch of concern as he continues to speak. “You'd know. Need to get the powder burns out of your hands. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this but let's avoid the court case. Are you alright?”

______________________________________________________________________________

Victor’s selfishness bleeds into anger, then violence and manipulation. He withholds cocaine, sex, hell, even food on the odd occasions that Sherlock wants it. The needles are under his bed, Sherlock knows it, but they’re locked up in a box and doesn’t have a key.

“You know, all it takes is a small misstep-” Victor starts, but Sherlock holds his hand up. He throws the pillow at Victor’s head and screams.

“Stop it. Now. I’m leaving,” he says with venom tainting his words. He snatches the box and throws it at the wall, breaking it open and snagging three of the unused doses of cocaine. He smiles wickedly and runs out the door. Not once does he turn back, nor does he call.

______________________________________________________________________________

“It’s reckless.”

______________________________________________________________________________

“Yes, of course I'm alright,” John says. His smile is shy, but determined. Sherlock finds it adorable. He decides to toss away the subtlety of his earlier approach. John is brilliant, but he is also an idiot.

“Well you have just killed a man,” Sherlock reminds him. John’s smile wavers out of shock, but holds steady when he sees it. He sees the happiness, the pride, and his heart swells. The scrape on his hand warms.

“Yes that's true isn't it. But he wasn't a very nice man.”

Sherlock grins and glances back at Lestrade. When his eyes return to John, they’ve only mirth in them. “True,” he mumbles. A brief pause interrupts his statement. “Dinner?”

“Starving,” John answers with a large smile. Sherlock’s heart picks up and soars. It flies above the clouds and explodes, taking Sherlock with it. He doesn’t see the shock blanket; he doesn’t know.

He steps on the orange cloth and nose-dives to the cement. A splash of blood shows on his cheek, trickling down from a cut above his eye. Sherlock wipes it away and flags down a cab.

It doesn’t occur to him until later, when the taste of pad thai is long forgotten, that the warmth in his chest matches the warmth blossoming on his brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Sorry! I had to fix a lot of spelling errors (I am without a beta at the moment, my apologies), but I think it's all alright now.


End file.
